Chapter 18 #2
Fitzwilliam shifted his weight. His hand moved—no more than a finger’s breadth—then stilled.
The girl did not look at him.
The soldier placed a hand on the man’s arm and turned him gently but firmly away from the path. The man went without resistance. His cap fell. He did not stop to retrieve it.
When the soldier and the man vanished around the corner, the clerk resumed his walk.
The girl moved on.
Fitzwilliam followed.
They did not speak until the trees thinned.
“You understood,” she said then.
“Yes.”
“If you had spoken,” she continued, “the error would have been corrected.”
“And?”
She did not slow. “You would also have been delayed.”
He nodded once.
Berlin did not err twice.
They walked on.
* * *
Two calls remained.
The first lay north of the river, offices kept plain and close. Fitzwilliam arrived at the hour given. The clerk at the door glanced past him once, then wrote.
Inside, the administrator rose, inclined his head, and sat again.
“You are accompanied,” he said, not as question. His consonants were clipped, exact.
“Occasionally.”
The man nodded and opened a folio. He did not look down at it.
“Sie haben nach Weisung gehandelt,” he said. “Under instruction.”
“Yes.”
A pause. The page was turned.
“Prussian methods are exacting,” the man went on. “Some more brutal than others.”
Fitzwilliam remained silent.
“Berlin prefers men who remain legible.” He paused. “Those who are not tend to complicate matters.”
The pen moved again.
“Your escort assists in preventing that.”
The administrator closed the folio.
Fitzwilliam rose, inclined his head, and departed.
The second call lay nearer the Tiergarten, a house set back from the street, its frontage quiet. Fitzwilliam waited longer here. When he was shown in, the nobleman did not rise.
“My compliments,” the count said. His gaze moved, measured, returned. “You are well connected.”
“My father is.”
“Indeed.” The nobleman smiled thinly. “One hears many things. Most are unnecessary.”
He spoke at length. Of regiments no longer active. Of cousins posted abroad. Of winters whose severity had been overstated.
Fitzwilliam was not asked a single question.
The count spoke of nothing current. Nothing useful—until.
“Have you any plans for Graz?”
Fitzwilliam remained silent.
The count held his gaze.
“Das best?tigt sich,” the count murmured. He stood.
Fitzwilliam rose and took his leave.
The count inclined his head with care.
“Give Ivan my regards,” he said.
The door closed without sound.
He took the long way back, following the sandy paths beyond the gate.
The light had shifted. The air lay flatter. The paths were no longer spare. Carriages cut across where riders had been earlier. Groups lingered where none had stood before.
He reached the same ground and halted where he had halted before.
The place did not answer him as it had.
Voices carried now and overlapped. Figures drew closer, then separated again. What had been visible earlier dissolved into motion. Nothing remained.
He left it as it was.
The hotel lobby lay quiet. Ledgers open. No voices raised.
She stood near the desk, her gloves in hand.
“You have been seen,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Count von Baart gave you a message.”
“He did.”
“And?”
“I shall render it when I return.”
“You were made under Markov,” she said.
He did not answer.
“That name is not neutral here,” she went on. “Nor in Saxony.”
He remained silent.
“You are not him,” she said. “You will be read as if you are.”
She donned her gloves. “Berlin has finished,” she said. “You should leave.”
He inclined his head.
She paused, then nodded once.
“Good evening, Herr Fitzwilliam.”
“Good evening.”
She went out. The door closed.
* * *
Berlin, August 1804
The nights had lengthened. The Tiergarten stood near black.
Torches stood along the walks at fixed remove, each flame held upright, each gutter checked. Light fell where it was permitted and failed where it was not. Between the flames the ground kept its depth.
He moved on the line already known to him. The path received him and did not widen.
Stone caught the fire and returned it cleanly. Water took the light and broke it, leaving nothing held. Trees rose and erased the rest. Faces did not form. Sound did not gather.
At this time of day, the Tiergarten is open.
The interval closed. The next torch answered. The measure repeated.
It shows what draws the eye.
Iron rails shone. Gravel flashed and died. The walk remained.
And what does not.
The dark stood entire. He came again to the place already known to him. It did not change its posture. The flame there burned no higher.
Berlin is clearer in open ground.
He turned back on the same count. The torches kept their distance.
Fitzwilliam returned to the hotel.
The clerk spoke from the desk. “Your carriage will be in readiness for your departure in the morning, sir.”
He did not answer. He went on.
In his rooms, he crossed to the writing slope. “Have all made ready,” he said. “We leave early.”
Villiers lifted the coat and held it ready.